


Twice The Bluff

by ikoliholic



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Jealous Thor, M/M, Protective Thor, Virgin Loki, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, also a whiff of f/m, and all that other usual stuff, barely a whiff tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:06:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7799317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikoliholic/pseuds/ikoliholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Canon. Loki visits the lower wards of Asgard for the first time, with Thor and the Warriors Three. He plays along with a lie to impress his brother’s friends, but ends up getting more than he bargains for…</p><p>Perhaps Loki is out of his depth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fandral is quite an asshat in this, but I often feel that Fandral is canonically _supposed_ to be an asshat, so just go with it. Also, women aren’t depicted too well either… ~~Blame the mead, and unprogressive social politics.~~
> 
> Feedback would be most welcomed. Enjoy <3

The tavern is small and dimly lit; busy enough for the slow, quiet evening it is. As with any drinking pit in the lower wards of Asgard, the place is inhabited mostly by rowdy men and women, supping and gulping on various alcoholic beverages, talking loudly and generally behaving in an uncouth fashion. Mead is the drink of choice, of course, and though he does not partake in most of the accompanying joviality, Loki’s penchant for mead is no exception; especially this particularly sweet, honeyed variety.

He likes sweet things almost as much as he likes magic and deception. Though what he’d like _most of all_ —and would gladly slit his own throat before openly admitting it— is to be held in higher esteem than his older, stronger, superior brother.

It seldom happens. In fact, it has _never_ happened. Not without embarrassment or trickery. Usually both. Though perhaps now that Loki has finally taken Thor up on his offer to drink with he and the Warriors Three, he may find a way to better assimilate or assert himself. Preferably both.

He drains his fourth goblet, then. The others drink from larger tankards —even Sif does— but Loki would do things on his own terms. He has quickly learned that such alcohol, sweet and appealing as it is, can blunt his razor tongue as often as it can sharpen it. He is young, and too inexperienced with drinking, with sociality in general.

Thor is not. He excels in both, despite that he is a mindless oaf in Loki’s eyes. A blue-eyed menace, he watches Loki from the other side of the large oaken table, possessive glare, hands wrapped tightly around his drink as Loki continues to pretend that he cannot sense his brother’s silent warning.

“Well, Fandral,” Loki says, placing the goblet down with an audible and yet delicate clank, “though I do believe it categorically _none_ of your concern, I will indulge you regardless.” He snaps his fingers and a maiden refills the chalice. Loki waits for her to leave before he continues. “This is _not_ my first time in the lower wards of Asgard by eve. In fact, I know my way around these parts _quite well_.”

Loki is, of course, lying to impress— or at least save face. Before tonight, he has never been down to these degenerate parts of the Golden Realm, where the alcohol is stronger, the voices are coarser and the whorehouses are in plain sight. Thor suspects this, too. Loki _knows_ that Thor suspects this, but he revels in his brother’s loyal silence all the same.

Fandral cocks an eyebrow at him. “Is that so, youngling?” He leans over and ruffles Loki’s hair as though he is naught but a child. Loki’s incandescent rage bubbles at the surface. “Would that be for the women, the mead, or the _men_?”

Loki freezes. Volstagg gasps.

Thor hurls his tankard at the opposite wall. “ _Enough_ ,” he roars, not knowing quite who to focus his attention on, and Loki takes a slither of pleasure in it.

“Do not rise to Fandral’s taunts,” says Sif, authoritative though a little patronising with it. “He has been drinking since breakfast.”

“Evident,” Loki notes, taking further pleasure in Fandral’s huffy silence. Before he brings the refilled cup to his lips, he discreetly enchants it to remove the most potent traces of alcohol from the beverage. It loses a little of its taste, but Loki does not mind. He would not lose control in this environment. “Though I have no desire to _rise_ to merely any taunt; I’m a young man with a sexual appetite, am I not?”

In truth, Loki does not have such appetites, or at least, he has not yet found a willing partner to explore such supposition. His desires currently lay within the craft of seid, and when he is not consumed by bettering his thirsts for knowledge and magic, the rest of his time is spent bitterly thinking about how he _isn’t_ Thor, nor will he ever be even a close approximation of his golden brother— all loud-mouthed and beloved. And wrong as it may be, the only recurring sexual and utterly, repugnantly shameful desire Loki keeps locked deeply away in a cavern of his mind is a niggling hunger to know how his brother’s mouth might taste.

Would it be as sweet as honeyed mead? As bitter as Alfheim alcohol? Or something different altogether? He does not know from where the hunger derived, but he knows that even the worst of his tricks would pale in comparison to such a careless action. Thus, it would remain buried deep for always, and he curses himself for thinking upon it within such close proximity of those he would call his closest approximation of _friends_.

Before speaking, Fandral glances at Thor, whose eyes have narrowed. “So you _have_ frequented the whorehouses then?” he asks Loki, nonchalant.

Loki deadpans. “Of course I have,” he lies.

“ _Loki_ ,” Thor bellows in open-mouthed shock.

“Good lad. Which is your favourite, then?” Fandral goads. Loki’s mind panics, but his face remains the picture of flushed elegance as he takes another sip and remembers the brothel at the top of the road.

“The Spittling Shrew, of course.”

Fandral roars with laughter then — even Hogun and Volstagg join in with tittering. Sif shakes her head and leaves the table at that, while Thor does nothing except glare at Loki.

“I meant your favourite _whore_ ,” Fandral says finally. “Norns, you are hilarious, Loki.”

Loki decides there and then that later, he will cast a spell on Fandral, Hogun and Volstagg that will make them vomit and soil themselves until they have no more bile to wretch nor faeces to defecate. “Well, I apologise for misunderstanding your atrocious, drunken semantics,” he smirks, before running his tongue across his own lips. “And for the record, let it be known that Astrid is my favourite.”

There must always be an Astrid in a whorehouse, surely? It is the commonest of names. Fandral hums in appreciation as his eyes rove over the shapely behind of the maiden who happens to bend over at that precise moment. “Mmm. A dark-haired, Vanaheim beauty, as I recall. Perhaps you are not so tedious and lacking in appetite after all.”

Thor suddenly stands up, the chair scraping abruptly behind him; everything seems to pale in comparison to his strong shoulders and thunderous face. He wears a dark grey cloak to blend in here, but there is no disguising his imposing beauty or regality.

“Fandral,” he starts, “you are a dear friend, but if you continue to drunkenly goad my little brother—”

Loki rises too. He is nowhere near as psychically imposing, but his eyes glint with equal enough threat even if his voice betrays him with a quaver. “I need not your protection!”

Fandral laughs nervously and Hogun quips, “Come now, Thor, surely you have dabbled in the whorehouses here too, if not in the higher wards at least?”

Loki feels something he notes close to jealousy as Thor’s face reddens at the question and he hesitates for just a split second.

“Of course. I just do not care to hear my brother—”

“ _You_ forget who begged me to visit these degenerate parts, brother,” Loki huffs before picking up his goblet and gulping the rest of his drink down, wishing he had not magicked the potent alcohol away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. All this talk of women has made my appetite somewhat _voracious_.”

***

The Spittling Shrew, it turns out, is just as hideous as the name suggests. The place is filled with smoke and the strong stench of sex and sweat, along with uncleaned furnishings and a sticky floor. A degenerate, older woman stands behind the bar when Loki walks in. She seems to recognise his status, as she at least has the decency to bow her head in respect.

“How can I help you, kind sir?” she says, and Loki notes how grime is gathered in the deep lines on her face, as though she has not washed in months. He also observes a warrior heaped on the bar, bathed in even more layers of dirt and tightly brandishing a bloodied sword despite his comatose, drunken face.

Perhaps Loki is out of his depth. Perhaps he should walk straight back out and run towards the citadel as fast as his legs would carry him.

“I am looking for Astrid,” he says instead, haughty. The woman’s eyes light up.

“Excellent choice, sir. I mean, ahem, of course. Yes.” She holds out a metal bowl, half-filled with dirty coins. “Payment first though.”

When Loki rolls his eyes and flings all of the money he has into the bowl, the woman gasps. “Most _generous_ , kind sir.”

“Yes,” he says arrogantly, denying his voice of the quavers of lacking conviction, “you would do well to remember that.”

She nods and smiles a crooked grin, lifts up a tattered red curtain to reveal an even more crooked wooden spiral staircase. Loki ascends the steps, trepidation coiling in his belly.

He does not want this, but he is a creature of pride. If this what it takes for him to _truly_ be a man in the eyes of Asgard, then so be it.

***

Thor downs his drink and waits but a minute before following his little brother out of the tavern. To his shock and disappointment, Loki _does_ make his way straight to the brothel.

Despite this damning evidence to the contrary, Thor still cannot believe that his beautiful, innocent younger brother would partake in such a vile establishment. Without care for the consequences, he waits only a few more moments before he bounds into the whorehouse and demands that the woman let him view the rooms. She does not stop the future king, and she does not ask for any payment.

Thor opens each door with reckless rage, viewing at least five acts of separate immorality before he finds the right room. Loki is there, fully clothed, standing bolt upright while a naked woman writhes around atop a dirty bed.

She has sallow skin and black hair, and her languid, opium-laced smile only widens when she realises who Thor is. “I’d thought perhaps I was imagining. Two for the price of one,” she vacantly notes, biting her lip, as Loki’s mouth hangs open in disbelief at the sight of his brother, of all things.

“What are you doing here?” he growls.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Thor roars back before slamming the door shut. He then lowers his voice into a hiss, having made scene enough already. “I have come to take you home, brother.”

“I am going _nowhere_ ,” Loki snaps. “Come here, dear _Astrid_. Pleasure your lover, as you have many times before.”

She wears a face of confusion, but rises from the bed and saunters over to Loki, undressing the layers of his dark green and black fabrics until they hang a little looser on his prone form, though revealing only a slice of his pale torso before he notes the dumb, frozen look on his brother’s face and changes his mind. The most cruel kind of mischief permeates, then. An impulse, a chance that may never again present itself thus.

“In fact,” Loki continues, voice deceptively confident, “why don’t you pleasure _him_.”

The moment is hung fragile around them. Loki’s mischief often twists into darkness, goading and unpleasant at times, but never before has it been quite _this_ dark. He keeps his cool nonetheless— at least on the exterior of things.

It is not often that Thor is lost for words or action, but in this he does not know how to behave. The whore turns on her heels and stands on her tiptoes, wrapping herself around him so that her back is flush with his front and her arms drape around his neck. He has the agile body of a warrior, and yet in this simple provocation of his senses he is drowning with panic, frozen with shock. “Do not…” he half-threatens, but his hands flinch and clearly ache to touch. He is young and virile, after all.

Loki doesn’t know what arouses him more from the sight — the slender planes of her contorting body, or the anguished pleasure Thor so plainly wears as his eyes burn wild blue, dirty blonde hair hanging around his face like a debauching frame. His brother has never liked being deprived of what he really wants, and Loki has seldom seen him use so much self-restraint.

She bends right over then, shoulder-length raven hair gracefully whipping the air, covering her features as she pushes her buttocks into Thor’s semi-hard flesh, obvious even through the layers of clothing he still wears. From this angle, Thor notes the pale, taught skin and black hair and tries to not associate it with somebody else. A pointless task, given how Loki is stood there in plain sight, arousal obvious through the bulge of his leathers.

That breaks it.

“Leave us,” Thor lowly growls and shoves her away, and at first the whore does not realise that he’s talking to her— not until he thrusts all of the money he has into her thin hands. “And tell no-one. We have matters to discuss.”

She nods, wraps herself in the shabby, greyed bedsheet, and then she is gone.

“Put a spell on the door,” Thor commands, turning to his brother. “ _Now_.”

“I cannot do such a cast,” Loki lies, panicking, “my seid abilities are not—”

“Do not tell me further untruths this evening!” Thor shoves Loki atop the wooden dressing table he’s leaning on, grabbing him by the shoulders. He knows how his brother’s abilities are increasingly formidable. “Do it!” Thor hisses again, hands having worked around the nape of his neck now as Loki remains frozen in his grip, but then Thor flinches, pulls back slightly at the feeling of unusually cool, forbidden skin beneath his fingers before continuing. It drowses his judgement. “If father were to find out we were here together… If _anyone_ were to—”

“What?” Loki bites, dancing on his own knife’s edge. “They may finally think I’m as much a man as you are?” Though reluctantly, Loki _does_ have to agree. It would cause a scandal, and they would both be punished for it. Or more likely, only _he_ would be blamed and punished for it. His fingers glow green, then the door does. “There,” he huffs. “Satisfied? Feel free to bellow and condescend to your heart’s content.”

Thor steps out of his threatening proximity, and _then_ Loki almost feels sorry for the trouble caused when he gains fresh perspective, sees fully the torture in Thor’s face. Almost.

“My brother, _why_?”

Because he is an insecure virgin prince whom everybody despises, that’s _why_. Loki thinks this. He does not say it.

“Why _what_?” he spits instead.

“Why would you come here?” Thor asks, enriched with fresh misery and anger at Loki’s false ignorance. “Why would you bring such… shame upon yourself?” His hand wraps around the nape of Loki’s neck once more, and Loki fails to repress a full body shiver at it. “To satisfy only the cruel nature of a drunken, goading friend?”

Loki scoffs. “Fandral is _your_ friend, not mine.”

“He will be my friend no longer if unapologetic for this tomorrow,” Thor murmurs.

The tension between them is an odd type of palpable; the silence speaks words that neither dare to build upon. Until Loki cracks a glowering smile, fearful of what could transpire. “This is exactly why I never take you up on your social invites, brother,” he says sadly, only a hint of mirth in it.

Thor glares at him with eyes that could penetrate Loki’s very soul, if only he would allow it.

He has always allowed it.

“We both know this is not the only reason.” Thor speaks with uncharacteristic duplicity. He pulls Loki closer, breathing shallow little breaths, feeling pulses quicken, race. “There is no shame in being…” Faces mere inches away now, Thor hesitates and stops. Loki can smell the mead from his mouth; they share the same particularly sweet variety as their favourite. And oh, it would be all to easy for one of them to close the distance that seems to grow more insufferable with every second.

“In being?” Loki repeats, tongue skittering across teeth, aching for his brother’s headstrong stupidity to rear its head first, close the distance…

“Whomever you are,” Thor answers finally, after a shaky breath. “My brother.”

Loki shakes his head. So _typical_ that in this, Thor has not the courage to lack honour. So typical that Loki would be the one to desire this deviation exponentially more, social outcast that he is.

He always did like taboos.

He would have it.

“Yes, I _am_ your brother. And one way or another,” Loki attempts authority but comes up short, pressing his forehead against his Thor’s for balance, “I will be bedded by someone tonight.” He takes Thor’s unguarded surprise as opportunity to shove him backwards, and before he can change his own mind, begins undoing the laces on his own leathers. “So then. I suggest you either make yourself scarce, or stay to watch. If you please.”

“ _Loki_ ,” Thor admonishes, but he makes no effort to move, nor avert his gaze. Still painfully hard, Loki gives himself a few experimental strokes before turning around. He leans atop the wooden piece of furniture, trembling with adrenaline as he peels the leather down furthermore to expose his backside.

“You know, I’ve been reading books, brother,” he says lowly. “Forbidden books,” he adds, barely a whisper, as he feels Thor walk towards him. He _knows_ that this is it; their first and only opportunity, can feel it thrumming electric in the very air around them. And if it ends in violence and shame, then Loki convinces himself he can blame the whorehouse, the mead; he can bluff his way out of it while he is still so young, so naïve…

“Brother,” is all Thor can manage as he halts a hair’s breadth away, voice a hot contrast to his motion-frozen body. “ _Please_.”

“What?” Loki says in shaken, coquettish reply. Emboldened in his vulnerable state, he is, and yet his jaw tremors as his face remains pressed against resting palm on the wall. “As you say, there is no shame in being—”

The thought is cut from Loki’s mind as he feels Thor’s hand wrap around his leathers, slowly pulling them upwards to their original position against his hips. Breath held tightly in his mouth, Loki forces his eyes open, turns his neck to see his brother’s face— and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“Please. Stop this _madness_ ,” Thor commands, eyes fierce. More of a desperate plea, in fact, and his hands linger for too long, too much to be incidental. “Lest…” he hesitates, “Lest I stop it for you.”

Loki blinks, keeps still for a moment as he assesses the pain of Thor’s resolve. Then he laughs, harsh and deep, and presses his sweating forehead back against the wall. “And just _how_ do you plan on doing so?” he murmurs, already defeated. Already knowing what is to come.

Thor’s eyes roll closed as he inhales deeply. “It would not be a challenge. You are maudlin and you are drunk.”

“Am I _really_?” Loki snarls. _If only_ , he thinks. When Thor does not respond, he shoves him away; self-consciousness and shame engulf like a tidal wave as he laces his leathers up with zero fastidiousness.

Thor stares. “Brother,” he starts.

“Don’t—” Loki interrupts, _hating_ the sound of that cursed word once more, “just—just _don’t_.”

“But I have w—”

“I care not for your unwise remarks,” Loki bites, bitter. He adjusts his gaze. “And given how unlikely I am to find a bedmate here able to satiate my _particular_ needs, the night is young.”

Chin up, he heads for the door. But Thor grabs him, pushes him against it so hard that had Loki not cast a spell earlier it would likely have crumbled through as though it were naught but dust.

“Forget about this eve. You are coming _home_.”

And it is said with such passion, such tenacity that for another moment, terrifying and true, Loki thinks so very much that Thor is going to kiss him.

He does not.

What a young, naïve fool Loki is.

“I am not leaving you here,” Thor adds instead, threatening with hands pressing down his wrists, “and if you do not agree willingly, you will be taken with force.”

Loki’s eyes widen at the challenge, despite himself. “I’d like to see you try.”

They grapple, strike, ruin the already pitiful room. Thor —of course— easily exhausts Loki, within a few moments has him pinned to the ground. Heavily panting above, icy blue eyes narrow. “Is that trial enough for you, brother?” he warns, voice like thunder. “Never test me so again.”

As they head for home in deathly silence, Loki wonders upon Thor’s choice of words, and continues to lament his own foolishness. Deception only ever seems to stretch so far.


	2. Chapter 2

Writhing around in his bed, Loki cannot find sleep. Despite everything— or perhaps _because_ of everything that’s transpired this night, he longs to know the taste of his brother’s lips more than ever. Would they be like mead, both sweet and somehow bitter too? Rough? Soft? Something else?

Cursing himself for repeating the same thoughts over and over, he forces his mind to think of other things. If he’d laid that whore on the bed, for example, and fucked her, would the feelings of woeful inadequacy within his soul be lessened? If Thor would have stretched _him_ out, allowed his cock to pulse deep within Loki, would _that_ calm the strife that claws its way into every waking moment he has?

_Why_ does he feel this way? It plagues him even more than it had before. There are so many questions that he fears he will never know the answers to, no matter how hard he studies books, studies people, studies himself.

Regret surges through him, then. As soon as they’d arrived back at the citadel, Loki had used his magic to disappear straight to his own living quarters, not wanting over a single second more with Thor. But now, in the dead of night, he wishes that he’d have stayed, said _something_ to Thor. _Anything_. He has missed his opportunity to find out if there is any possibility his brother feels… Feels things the same way.

Stubbornly, Loki keeps his eyes squinted shut, refuses to open them until morning, so that he may forget about this woeful evening. It half-works, and he feels the threads of slumber start to pull at him…

That is why at first, he thinks he’s dreaming.

Thor is a shadow.

“I am sorry, brother,” he says, earnest, stepping into the light.

Loki sits up, rubs his eyes in a false display of awoken sleep. “For what?” Apologies from the golden child are rare.

“For following you to that wretched place. For bringing you to the tavern in the first instance. For our fighting on this eve,” Thor says. “I am the older of us. I should lead by example.”

“You are not my keeper,” Loki scowls, already feeling his anger overtaken with weaker emotions. “So spare me the condescension. Oaf.”

Thor smiles at the accidental term of endearment, but it soon fades. “I am also sorry for something else.” He lowers his gaze. “But I cannot yet find the words to say it.”

Loki narrows his eyes now; suspicion prickles at his skin. He inhales deeply, out of necessity, and then he smells it…

“Have you been _drinking_?”

“Perhaps.” Thor smiles, bends back to the shadows and picks up a large, ornate goblet filled with honey-sweet mead. He sits at the foot of Loki’s bed, offers it to him. “Though not in excess.”

“It is the middle of _night_.”

“You are correct, brother.” Thor grins brazenly now, “As you are often correct, these days. When you’re not weaving untruths.” He gulps down some of the drink, makes a pleasant groan in his throat as it washes down. “Mm. Your point proven. It _does_ taste sweeter from a handsome goblet.”

“Give me that,” Loki gripes, snatching the beverage and bringing it to his lips.

Thor studies his face, then.

“Your undereye is blackened,” he says, brushing his finger to it and holding it there. “I am sorry for that too.”

Loki’s heart rattles in his chest, but he manages a shrug of nonchalance. “It will heal. As it always does.”

“I was so enraged by Fandral, and then I just could not bear the thought of you…” Thor falters, draws his hand away, “Of you… You do not normally frequent such places?”

“What if I did?” Loki rolls his eyes, only to relent at Thor’s wounded expression. “Norns, Thor. No. I do not.”

“Then brother, why do you lie?”

_To save face. To impress you. To exasperate you. To refute the clearly truthful rumour that I have never so much as shared a kiss with another, let alone any other form of intimacy. Take your damned pick, golden brother…_ Oh, so many answers bubble on Loki’s tongue. He ignores them all, opts for nonchalance once more, and takes a massive swig from the goblet instead.

“Well,” he hiccoughs on his own greed, “I could easily postulate as such for _you_.”

“What do you mean?” Thor says, affronted.

Loki scoffs. “Please, Thor. You feign modesty _terribly_.” When Thor’s face remains truthfully insulted, Loki expands his reasoning. “Why in Norns’ names would the _golden_ prince have need to visit such degenerate establishments, when he would willingly be offered such transgression from any comely maiden he so chooses, right in the comforts of his own bed?”

Thor’s face reddens, “You think so low of me, brother.” His voice is low, rueful. “I am no carnal beast.”

Loki hiccoughs again and laughs, mind already loosening from the influence of alcohol through his young blood.

“How very _disappointing_.” An uncomfortable silence permeates the air; until Loki sups the rest of the drink, ending with an audible swallow. “Sif will be _most distraught,_ ” he says, testily, swirling the empty goblet around with his wrist. “When she finally talks you into her bed, that is.”

“Have care, Loki,” Thor simmers. “You know that I do not think of her in any such way.”

“You do not like the dark-haired sort?”

Thor’s mouth opens, then his jaw clenches shut. “The books you spoke of earlier,” he asks instead, hiding all traces of intent. “Tell me about them.”

Loki treads carefully, unable to decipher Thor’s duplicity. “Why tell you,” he begins, voice deceptively calm, “when I could _show_ you?”

When alarm twists itself plainly onto Thor’s face, Loki laughs at his expense —of _course_ the golden Odinson could not truly be duplicitous— then plucks the book in question from underneath his pillow.

“Here,” he says, offering the work to his brother while concealing the disappointment well into his heart; he has had enough humiliation to last him a hundred years in just one evening past. He needs not more. “Thank you for the drink. Also for a rare and most amusing apology. Now acquire away in the modesty of your _own_ bed.”

The amused smirk fades from Loki’s face however as Thor at first hesitates, then reaches for the book only to immediately discard it on the floor, instead choosing to cup Loki’s jaw with deft fingers.

“But I learn faster by hand, brother,” he says, gently guiding Loki’s body flush to his, only bedsheets and nightclothes left between them. “If-if you would indulge me in a lesson, that is.”

Of the myriad thoughts hurtling through Loki’s mind, the one he least expects to vocalise is what comes out. “ _You had your chance,_ ” he spits bitterly, trying not to think about how being held in such a reverent way makes him tremble. Trying not to stare at the reddened allure of Thor’s lower lip, dewy from the mead. “So leave me in peace.”

Thor does no such thing, but those lips curl with rising fury and his brow furrows deep. “Do not twist my actions. No beloved brother of mine… no worthy soul should _ever_ lose their virtue in such a vile place—”

“I am no—ah!” Loki’s sentence is cut short as Thor flips him over onto his front, presses into the back of his body, strong and solid and so _hot_. The empty goblet clatters onto the floor. Loki struggles for breath, regrets the mead, regrets everything.

“This is no game, brother,” Thor says, keeping him pinned, voice rough like gravel and desperate. “I can take no more. If you cannot look me in the eyes and be true, then tell me thus that this is what you want.”

Loki remains quiet, petulant, struggling to get out of the iron hold Thor has on him.

“Tell me what you want. _Tell me, Loki,_ ” Thor growls, pushing harder. “Say it.”

“Unhand me, brute—” and Thor does no such thing, but Loki ceases the struggle anyway. “I—I don’t _know_ what I want.”

It is the truth. Loki only knows that he wishes to either _be_ his brother, or _be had by_ his brother, and can articulate neither point without losing everything. He’d thought that by acting as such this evening, he would infer the _real_ truth from himself and from Thor, but in reality has only made things worse than ever. The sentiment is choking, painful to think upon, that he may never get what he doesn’t even know he wants.

“Loki.” Thor lowers his head, rests it between Loki’s shoulder blades and exhales deeply. “I am half-maddened with your insinuations,” he says, voice low now; gentle thunder pressed into fabric and flesh. “ _Please_ , brother. Do not speak riddles for this.”

Loki exhales too. “Unhand me,” he affirms, smooth and confident, “and I will show you what you wish to know.”

Reluctantly, Thor does.

“Come, follow my instruct. And do not mistake my earlier actions for something else.” Loki speaks matter-of-factly, hoisting delicate nightwear over his head to reveal pale flesh and lithe muscle. He _never_ shows his skin in the public of Asgard when training, self-conscious of its un-golden tones and unfilled muscular prowess, but in front of Thor alone he is not ashamed.

“Loki…”

“Let us not dwell too much upon the implications of our kinship, brother. Simply, I am of a certain age now. As you are.”

Thor’s face is a picture of trepidation. “But you have not—”

“—And I desire to have the skin of another against my own, a beating heart beside mine. Nothing more.” At least that’s what he _says_ , but as Thor mimics Loki’s action and removes his tunic, Loki remembers every muscle studied from discreet glances and wonders if he would climb into that skin and wear it as his own if given the opportunity; wonders if perhaps he _should_ feel inferior in this moment. It does not matter. He shuns it all to the back of his mind and readopts confidence. “I simply wish to explore, indulge in carnality…” but his mind wanders; he cannot bring himself to look away from Thor’s perfect flesh.

Loki despairs the thought of fully revealing their _lower_ halves to one another, then foolishly remembers he has already done so earlier that very evening. Shunning his emotions down again, he decides to turn around on the bed, so that he would have no more of it.

Coward.

“Should I turn—”

“Do as you please,” Loki chides, dragging the fabric over his hips, only to stop. “In fact,” he says, looking over to his dressing table, idea formulating. “Do _not_ do as you please. Follow me.”

Palms spread on the broad table, Loki feels sturdier, in more control of himself. Still, his legs tremble, no matter how hard he presses down on the ornate dark-metal beneath him. He looks at Thor’s face in the mirror for a moment, sees plainly the desire writ across it, then snaps his eyes shut.

_Now_ he removes the rest of his clothing, hears the thud of Thor’s own garments not far behind.

Unable to control impulse, Thor closes the distance, curls both his own hands loosely into the dip of bony hips, not knowing if he’s trying to steady himself or Loki in the process.

Loki laughs liltingly at the action, pretending not to care that his brother’s fingers upon him once more feel like both terrifying brand and exalting remedy. “So _coy_. First time with a man, is it?” his voice drips with mockery. “Perhaps the younger can teach the elder something after all.”

“Loki,” Thor starts, but he doesn’t need to say anything more. He speaks in the language of physicality, and Loki can already hear his thoughts loud and clear. It unnerves.

“Give me your fingers,” he says, matter-of-factly, “in my mouth first.”

Thor places only one thick finger into Loki’s mouth, groaning at the hot, wet feel of it. Blue eyes burn fiercely in the mirror’s image, but Loki cannot bear to look at that which he thought would make this easier.

Instead, he hums around the digit before popping it out with his hand and sliding it towards the space between his cheeks; guiding it to the tight entrance, pushing it in just enough to cause himself to hiss, and for Thor to groan once more.

“Mmm,” Loki heeds then, emboldened though gasping as Thor pushes further, stretching the skin. “ _Another_.”

Thor complies, and it isn’t long before he’s thrusting three slick fingers in and out of Loki in a methodical frenzy, fascinated at how his brother’s body yields so beautifully to it. His erection occasionally grazes Loki, hot and hard, and Loki’s mouth waters at the very thought of it filling him.

His own erection juts into his stomach as he remains hunched forward on the furniture. And any kind of instruction he’d remembered from the sordid book is long forgotten; as Thor pulls his fingers out and places his palm flat on the small of Loki’s back, it feels like pure electricity, pure instinct, both draining and igniting every bone in his body. Thor’s touch.

“What now?” Thor rasps, and Loki makes the mistake of looking at him through that damned mirror.

“Let us go and merrily picnic in the gardens, shall we?” he snaps in return, “What do you _think_?”

“There is no need for cruelty,” Thor says, wounded. “I do not want to hurt you.”

_You will always hurt me_ , Loki doesn’t say. He nods instead, and wonders whether Thor has said that to his previous bedmates too, or if he only thinks of Loki as weaker than a variety of stupid, mindless maidens. Thor makes a valid point, though. Despite the preparations, Loki knows that more lubrication will be needed if they are to… Thor is bigger than most, probably bigger than _anyone_.

As if reading Loki’s thoughts, Thor offers his palm to Loki, who spits into it; three wickedly slick mouthfuls of saliva. Thor trickles it over his length before pushing in one brutal and slow motion. They both choke on the sensation of it, seizing up to adjust. “ _Oh_ ,” Loki manages between clamouring for breath and clawing desperately at the mirror and the table. Thor is buried to the hilt now, and he bites softly at the nape of Loki’s neck, draped over him like a somehow fluid study in marble, carving out his own path.

Loki rises up instinctively to meet him, and Thor pulls his body flush, enjoying the feel of Loki’s naked torso. He sweeps his hands possessively across the bones of Loki’s ribs, the inward curve from hip to abdomen, trails up and up to press flat against his hammering heart.

“The thought of another’s hands on your flesh,” Thor stammers, his own heart pounding just as strong, “ _I couldn’t…_ ” then he begins to thrust; gentle at first, then fiercely passionate and possessive. He licks and bites at the sweat from Loki’s pulsing neck while Loki’s lips still ache for touch, inhales the sweet oils of his raven hair, revelling in each and every breath and halted moan that tumbles from such a normally clever, acid-sharp tongue. Loki does the same for every unabashed noise that escapes Thor’s wickedly hot mouth from behind him.

Then, mid-thrust, Thor stops and pulls Loki flush. “Look at us,” he whispers gently, thoughtfully, wraps knowing fingers around the column of Loki’s throat so that Loki must see also.

They look so perfect together, so strikingly _right_ against one another in the throes of this passion that Loki can hardly stand to look at the glass. They should not be so different. They are _brothers_. He grabs, shoves at the mockingly cruel mirror until it snaps from its place and tumbles to the floor.

Somehow, it doesn’t break. That’s even worse.

“Curse you,” he whimpers through rattled breath while Thor’s hands delicately trace that which they had previously harmed. Bruised flesh, already healing. “Curse it _all_.” Each earnest thrust, all of this seems to come so easy, so natural to Thor that Loki wishes to pull every bone from its socket and smoulder to dust. He did not know it would be this way. Every touch upon Loki’s skin smothers him with a love that he was not prepared for. _Is_ not prepared for.

“You would have me stop?” Thor says, coarse through shaken breath.

“I would have you _never_ stop,” the words are off Loki’s tongue before he thinks of their implication, “now that I know of your touch.”

Emboldened, Thor pins Loki’s arms right back so that Loki cannot use them for support, so that he has no choice but to cling onto Thor’s flesh with desperate fingers instead while Thor uses strength enough for the both of them. He bites at Loki’s ear, licks the shell of it, breathes deep. Savours. Loki feels as if his world has been flung from its axis, never to return. This isn’t so far from truth.

For princely gods, one could argue that the act is pitifully short. Though in their defence, they _are_ young; besides, they are so attuned to one another that time is quite irrelevant. It feels like seconds, hours or months to them both, and yet like no time ever experienced at all. A frozen slither of eternity to be treasured, dwelled upon for eons to come. How little they know.

As soon as one of Thor’s hands wraps across his rattling chest and the other is wrapped around Loki’s cock, all it takes it one, two, three, four strokes and he’s crying out and coming all over Thor’s hand, his own belly, the furniture— not that either of them care enough in the moment to notice. All they can think of is each other. Thor grips tighter still as Loki’s body reacts to orgasm, comes himself soon afterwards, pulsing deep into Loki, who feels every bit of it with a terrifying clarity, so utterly _visceral_ that it brings tears to his eyes.

Face buried in the crook of Loki’s sweat-damp neck, Thor pulls out after only a moment, guiding Loki’s palms back onto the table. Loki rests shakily on his own arms, breath harsh for a few seconds before he summons the strength to turn around.

He dreads what’s to come; expects to see contempt, disgust or —even worse— mindless arrogance on Thor’s face. Thor will always be strong and solid where Loki is weak, and the golden prince _has,_ after all, evidently bested him in this also.

Instead, all Loki can decipher is a discreet kind of terror that he’s seldom witnessed on his brother’s handsome features. Vulnerability, almost.

Loki stands a little taller then. He is still a few inches shorter than Thor in _actual_ height, of course, but right now he has never felt more equal.

“Funny,” he starts, discerning, never one for missing the opportunity of a running commentary. Thor bites at his own lip and stares at the floor as he impatiently awaits the rest of Loki’s sentence. “That I should unshackle the burden of my precious virginity _before_ I have even experienced a first kiss.”

Something changes, then.

Thor’s eyes are a stormy sea of blue and grey. His mouth opens into an almost rueful curve. “Funny too,” he replies — with a hint of petulance, but also more untamed vulnerability as he looks on at his younger brother, “that I have done the exact same.” Loki’s eyes widen at the admission. Thor’s mouth curves further now, into an inviting smile. “Would that my partner be kind enough to allow me to amend such foolish oversight…”

And sometimes, Loki gets what he wants too.

In the end, Thor tastes not like honey-sweet mead, but like sensuous heavy rain and murderous fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is _always_ welcome, either below here or via Tumblr, where [I can usually be found fangirling and/or talking shit](http://ikoliholic.tumblr.com/).


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